Evergreen
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK. Christmas fic. "For all your merciless savaging of the humans, there are elements of their society you would not be without." England gestured around the glittering ballroom, decorated in frosted finery for the Christmas party they were well in the thick of. "You have always enjoyed Christmas."
1. I

A small three-part Christmas fic for the festive week. Sadly I didn't get around to _Eternity_ this year due to focusing on finishing _The Waning._.. updates for which have dropped off a little, haha... T.T

I'll get to it, I'll get to it. In the meantime, enjoy...?

Evergreen

[I]

"I think it's gonna snow."

"Oh, don't be so silly."

America puffed out his cheeks irritably. "Feels cold enough."

"There's some frost on the ground." England turned the page of his book, not looking up. "Hardly worth writing home about."

"We _are_ home."

No answer. America stretched out his leg, prodding at England with his foot. "Bah humbug, Scrooge."

"Get out of it." England batted his toes away. "Still, at least you're paying attention."

"Hm?" America plonked himself down on the edge of the sofa, swinging his legs. "What's that, darlin'?"

"That's what I'm reading." England held up the book – a dog-eared leather-bound copy of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol._

"Oh yeah?" America looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack in it. "Is it as good as you remember?"

"Yes," England sighed.

America sank his teeth into his bottom lip. "Good."

England glanced at him over the top of the book. "Now who's being 'bah humbug' about it all?"

"I'm not." A little defensive. "Just thinking, is all."

"Try not to tire yourself out, love."

"Drop dead, England." America grinned at him. "Come on, let's go out and get a tree. It's Christmas Eve, after all!"

"Oh, do we really need one?"

"If we want these halls to be properly decked, yes we do!" America seized him by the leg and dragged him off the sofa. "Come on!"

"Ouch." England kicked savagely at him, missing. "Don't just haul me around like that, idiot!"

"Pssh, you'll live. Jeez, I know you're old but come on." America skipped away. "I'll get the axe. Make sure to wrap up warm!"

"For what?" England grumbled, sliding his book onto the coffee table. "The damnable frost?"

"For the snow!" America called.

"The snow we're not going to have?"

"We might!" America leaned around the door again, brushing aside a hanging sprig of holly. "Maybe we'll have a Christmas miracle!"

"Not bloody likely."

America stuck out his tongue. "You're about as much fun as the Ghost of Christmas Future," he said. "Now hurry up and get ready. I know a good place to go for a tree."

He sidled away without another word. England went to get his shoes and sank onto the edge of the sofa to put them on. He paused, distracted, to rub at a dirty mark on the worn cover of his book. It didn't want to budge. How annoying – and on a first edition, too.

He could hear America singing loudly and cheerily to himself from outside. It sounded like 'Walking in a Winter Wonderland' – albeit with half the words replaced with nonsense because America couldn't remember them.

"It's not going to snow, America," England said softly, leaning back his head. "...How could it?"

 **[1775]**

"John Adams is glaring at the back of my head," America said, lowering his voice. "I can feel it."

England glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder. "Why, yes he is." He sipped at his brandy. "I must say, I am most impressed."

America shrugged. "It is less a skill to be boasted about and more an increasingly-common state of affairs. He does not like me."

"He has said so?"

"In as many words. Truth be told, I don't think any of them are overly fond of me." The teenager pulled a face. "Woe is me."

England smirked. "I daresay that is the very attitude to which they take offence."

"That," America agreed, "and the fact that I am unmoved by their rallying cry for independence. So they want representation before taxation." Another shrug. "What on this earth does that matter to me?"

"Goodness, you _are_ a little beast, aren't you?" England was amused. "Have you really no care for your people at all?"

"They are not my people." America examined his nails. "They are yours. This is, after all, still your colony, no matter how much tea they throw into Boston Harbour."

"They say that they do it for you," England said. "For freedom in your name."

"Then they take my name in vain."

England laughed. "What a delight you are. With all my time spent pressed from your side, I often forget."

"How flattering. Do me a kindness and take me with you next time you go. I know not how much longer I can put up with this warmongering."

"Oh, come along. For all your merciless savaging of the humans, there are elements of their society you would not be without." England gestured around the glittering ballroom, decorated in frosted finery for the Christmas party they were well in the thick of. "You have always enjoyed Christmas."

"That is because the humans become overtaken with the strange sudden urge to be kind to one another this season," America said.

"I see," England replied. "And it has nothing to do with the food or the gifts or the brandy."

"I don't even like brandy," America said, stealing a handful of figs from England's plate. "...Is John Adams still watching me?"

"Yes. So is James Madison."

" _Ugh_. Please let us go elsewhere. Even sitting on the back step would be preferable to this."

"Your leaving the party with me in full view of these men will not win you any favours."

"I care not. I want nothing to do with them."

"Very well." England put down the plate and offered America his arm. "Let us away."

Outside it was snowing, bitterly cold, with the flakes falling in the black silent darkness beyond the house. America pulled away and crunched down the steps, his bootprints his only anchor as he strayed towards the edge of the woods.

"America, don't you dare," England warned. "I am not in the spirits to go in after you."

"I am not going anywhere," America replied; but his tone was petulant, as though he'd been thinking about it.

"Do not play the fool with me, boy. You have done it before."

America laughed. It echoed off the black trees, delighted and guilty. England honestly sort of half-wanted him to run off – because then, at least, he could just shrug empty-handedly at the like of Adams and Jefferson and Franklin. _He's gone - what are we meant to do about it now?_

He wasn't going to run, though. England could see that he wasn't; he would have done it by now. He seemed more at ease out here, away from the men so determined to shackle him with words and wars. England, of course, was far worse than John Adams – but he, at least, was a devil America knew.

England sat on the steps and lit a cigar, trying to coax the warmth back into his fingers. He should have put on his travelling cloak – how America seemed perfectly content in just his tunic and breeches was beyond him.

"You know," America piped up, kicking at a rock, "they said they wish to declare independence. Adams said they will do it whether I want them to or not."

"I see." England watched him through the smoke. "That would be... well, not a declaration of war, exactly, but–"

"Close enough." America looked up. "I do not want them to. There will be a war and..."

He trailed off. England tapped off his ash.

"I confess," he said, "that I would prefer they did not drag you into any squabble that they may have with my king and I. You are only a child, after all." He paused, looking at his cigar. "Still, that is not how the humans think. They like to have a cause and you... you will be that cause. Rest assured that these men will be willing to die for you, at the very least."

"I do not want them to. They say it is for me but it is for _them_ , it will always be for their best interests. I am not stupid – I know they just want to use me. They have not even asked me what I want, after all." America flopped down in the snow, going quite still. His breath clouded between the frosted branches. "I really hate humans, England. I wish it was like this always."

He turned his head, looking at England on the steps with the grand house lit up behind him.

"I wish it was just us."

("Debase me before them all," America said, pulling on England's arm. "Then they will have no want of me."

"I am obviously not going to do something so disgusting," England said coldly, pulling free. "Beware, your desperation is growing dangerous." He straightened his cuff. "I am returning to the party. Join me when you are of sounder mind."

He moved away, striding back to the down the corridor towards the warm glow of the ballroom. America scampered after him like an imp.

"It need not be anything truly outrageous," he wheedled. "A drunken kiss on the mouth, a hand to the front of my breeches–"

"America, I am becoming impatient."

"But your actions are inconsequential!" America said, springing in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. "They wish to be rid of you anyway! What will truly matter... is my reaction, which will be–"

"I dread to think."

"—To reciprocate, of course. To make it public, well, they will have no choice. The gossip will do the work for me." America wrapped his arms about England's neck, hanging off him. "Can they have England's willing whore as their cause? I think not."

"So you will destroy yourself before you will let them do it." England forcibly unwound him. "Not, I assure you, the wise decision that you seem to think."

"So you admit it?" America hissed. "You would wash your hands of me the moment I am troublesome?"

"If only it were that simple." England brushed him aside. "We both know that you are welcome in my bed – but believe me that it is not a weapon you can wield. Calling yourself my whore will only make them more determined to free you."

"I would rather be yours than belong to them! It isn't freedom, not for me! If I become their nation then I must answer to them and who knows what they will ask of me!"

England stopped again. "I understand," he said. "I understand your terror. I have felt it also. But you must understand that it is the humans who truly run this world, America. What am I supposed to do for you?" He touched the teenager's cheek. "Truly, what _do_ you expect me to do? I cannot keep you with me through force of will alone."

"Then–"

"And surely you do not believe that a gossip-baiting stunt will be enough to stave off a revolution. These men are desperate, America, perhaps even more than you. They will take what they can get. England's whore is better than nothing."

America clenched his fists. "...If you will not fuck me then you could at least do the decent thing and kill me," he said bitterly. "At least then I would be spared."

"And a very Merry Christmas to you, too," England said dryly. He pinched his cheek. "There is really no sense in being a coward about it, you know. There is no escaping it."

"We could run away." America clutched at his sleeve again. "Then it would just be you and I, England, and we could do whatever we wanted."

"Oh, goodness. Surely you do not truly believe that? That there is anywhere for us to go?"

"I..."

"My darling." England kissed him on the forehead. "Even killing you would not spare you now.")

* * *

...How cheerful for the festive season.

Updates will be every two days, with the final part posted on Christmas Eve. :3


	2. II

Thank you all for the positive response so far! I'm happy people are enjoying this odd little story so very inappropriate for this lovely season! XD

Thanks to: **tokyoghoul234, Antheia Gwynn, suzako, Roaming Snow, AnyaZeAwesomeGlaceon, Diurnal Days, flamethrowerqueen** and **phantomfox**!

Evergreen

[2/3]

"I'm not convinced you really know where you're going."

"Sure I do." America tugged on his hand, leading him beneath a silvered bough. "Come on, this way." He grinned back at him. "And try to keep up, old timer."

"I'm going to put my foot up your cheeky arse in a minute, boy."

"Haha, like you could even catch me."

"...You know I'll always catch you, America."

America stopped dead. England bumped into his back, his feet crunching on the frost underfoot as he stumbled. He shook his head.

"Love?"

"I know," America said quietly. He bowed his head, clenched his fists, nails curling into his palms. "I know you will, England."

England exhaled through his nose, putting a hand to his shoulder.

"I didn't mean... that is..."

"I know," America said again. He reached back, clasped his cold hand atop England's for a moment. "Still, it doesn't hurt, does it?" Another pause. "To be reminded."

"I wasn't being cruel. At least... not on purpose."

"I don't think you're ever cruel on purpose, England." America pulled away, striding ahead. The axe gleamed across his back. "In fact, I've always felt that your particular cruelty is an accident, a by-product."

England stuck his hands in his pockets, crunching after him. "How kind of you absolve me of sin," he said, "but I'm afraid it's not true. Spain, France, China... I knew exactly what I was doing then."

"Oh, god, I wasn't talking about _them_." America stretched out his arms, his fingertips tracing over the blackened trunks of crusted trees. "I was talking about me."

"I should have known. You're always talking about yourself."

"Heh. You're always talking about me, too." He turned towards England, walking backwards. "I am your sun."

"My thoughts exactly. You're full of hot air."

America laughed uproariously, unoffended, genuinely amused. His laughter echoed all throughout the silent woodland, tangling in the cold grasping naked branches. It populated, miraculously magnified, made it sound like there was a crowd – hundreds of other invisible Americas between the trees, just out of sight, the re-emergence of Roanoke.

England shivered and shook it off. No, he knew well enough. It was just the two of them out here.

They left America's laughter behind, venturing ever deeper into the cold quiet heart of the woods beyond their home. England supposed he could see why America seemed so certain of snow, with everything crisp and brittle and bright; leaf veins and grass blades brought to brash attention, swollen under the weight of winter. Only the thick crusts of sharp holly and sly winding ivy remained their deep fierce green – filigree and crowns, England half-remembering old customs, mad merriment from centuries before America, the scent of tangerines and cloves.

Ah, and now the sudden heavy smell of pine.

"Ta-dah!" America gestured triumphantly towards the nestled grove of splendid spruces, sparkling silver in the sun. "Perfect, aren't they?"

"Indeed." England frowned. "They are... rather big. How do you propose to–?"

"Ah, it'll be fine. I'll drag it home, no sweat." America bounced on the balls of his feet. "So... which one do you want?"

"Oh, I'm not bothered. You decide. You're the one who really wants it." England folded his arms. "I really can't see the point, myself."

"Oh, piss off, Scrooge." America waved his hand dismissively at him. "Fine, fine, I'll pick one." He rubbed at his chin, tilting his head. "It needs to be a good one..."

England huffed, shivering. He didn't know why he'd allowed America to even talk him into this. Perhaps he'd just felt like the walk. He knew perfectly well that nothing was going to come of all this.

"This one!" America announced, pointing to a medium-ish perfectly formed tree twinkling in the middle. "How about it, England? Do you like it?"

"They all look the same to me."

"They do _not_!" America sulked. "This is serious business, England! You should know that better than anybody! You're the one who started this Christmas Tree thing!"

"Wrong. It was Germany. I pinched it from him." England pressed his lips together. "You knew that."

"Ugh, I can't remember all that stuff. It was like a thousand years ago."

"No, it wasn't." England didn't bite. "Fucking hurry up, will you? I'm freezing my bollocks off."

"I told you, it's gonna snow." America reached back for the axe, taking it in both hands. "Anyway, stand back. I'm gonna go all George Washington on this thing."

England was torn between saying "I'm amazed you even remember who George Washington is" and "No, you're not" but in the end he said nothing, watching America line the axe up with the trunk. He gave a few lazy practice swings and England saw his hands falter even then. Finally he took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, tensed his powerful muscles and pulled back, swung–

Stopped dead. The axe was inches from the tree, which trembled in the wind. There wasn't a sound. England felt in his pocket for cigarettes, as he often did at times like this, but of course came up empty-handed.

"Hey," he said softly. "America. Let's go home."

America let the axe drop with a clatter. He let out a deep breath, perhaps one he hadn't realised he'd been holding in, and straightened. He looked at England blankly.

"England," he said. "...I can't do it. I... I just can't."

England sniffed. "I don't know what you were expecting," he replied.

 **[1863]**

America self-consciously smoothed down the lapels of his suit as he made his way through the twirling crowd. It was rather shabby, fraying at the seams, a little out of fashion, but it was the only good one he had.

He had other things to spend his money on, after all – whether he wanted to or not.

He came to a halt beneath the balcony and looked up. There was a gleaming tree at the head of both staircases, grand silvered things encrusted with gleaming baubles and wreaths of tinsel, so heavily jewelled that they no longer looked real. Between them, his elbows on the balcony's velvet banister, was England. He was smoking and looked bored as hell. Even when his green eyes shifted and met America's, his expression didn't really change – like he was well beyond reaching. Perhaps the opium rumours were true after all.

He did, however, straighten in acknowledgement. He beckoned and America needed no excuse, climbing the stairs, ascending to meet him. He couldn't even find it in him to much care that England _would_ make a public spectacle of it.

"Well," England said, one hand on the velvet. He looked him up and down. "I confess, I didn't think you would come. I thought you would be... otherwise engaged."

"Yes." America nodded. "I... I am. I should be."

"And yet...?"

America exhaled. "I just... needed to get away for a while. I couldn't breathe. I mean, you understand, don't you? England?"

"Hmm?" England craned his neck to look over the balcony again. His eyes flickered over the crowd in all their finery, whirling to a waltz. He rolled his cigarette back and forth between his fingers.

"...No," America muttered. He looked at the carpet, feeling like an idiot. "How... how could you?"

"Of course I understand," England replied. He didn't look at him. "I wasn't always like this. You know that."

"I suppose... sometimes I forget."

England, reversed meteor: once so small and scrappy, now splendid, scorching, sun-never-setting. He, too, was buried beneath the baubles of his edgeless empire, a sapphire like a fist at the froth of his throat. He was in black embroidered velvet with a blue sash across his chest and a cape gathered at one shoulder, the silk lining glistening like a new-split fruit. He had white gloves, kid, something soft, completely covered from the neck down. America couldn't remember what he even looked like underneath, couldn't recall the scent of his skin, not anymore.

England pushed off the balcony, looking America up and down.

"You're afraid of me," he said.

"No, I'm not."

"You are. You think you don't know me."

England stubbed out his cigarette and reached for him. America recoiled as far as he could without actually daring to take a step back – and England caught him, rubbing at his cheek with his thumb. He examined his glove afterwards, frowning at the mark.

"Dirty business, isn't it?" he said. "...War, I mean."

"It's got nothing to do with me." A little vehement, maybe. "The goddamn humans _again_...! They're fighting between _themselves_ now, can you believe it? After all that!"

"Yes," England said absently. "After they dragged you away from me as their trophy... It's a shame, really it is."

 _I mean, look at me now. This is what you're missing. Do make sure you go back and tell them, won't you?_

England, he thought, was preening – just a little bit, a new habit, but it was definitely there. America wasn't afraid, not really, but he was wary. It was true that he didn't know him anymore. He didn't feel that he could hang off his neck and beg, at the very least.

Besides, England was supremely selfish. In the end, he had been no fucking help at all.

"I do like your trees," America said vaguely, changing the subject. He didn't want to be asked. "They're very pretty."

"Oh, thank you." England had gone back to sounding bored as sin. "Germany's idea."

"Ah." America scrunched his nose. "Yes, I had heard... that you two are practically married."

England waved his hand. "Purely political, I assure you. Victoria does what she bloody well likes."

"So do you."

England looked right at him, his green eyes gleaming.

"That's rich," he drawled, "coming from you."

(England got dressed again before the long mirror in his parlour. America watched him, curled under the covers. He was too exhausted to move.

"I'm afraid I must go back to the party," England said. "It is Christmas, after all. I'd better show my face."

"Yes," America sighed. He closed his eyes.

"But you may stay here if you want," England went on. He pinned his cravat with the huge sapphire. "...Hiding."

America opened his eyes again. He didn't say anything, watching England glance at him in the mirror.

"I know that is why you're here," England said. "You ran away."

A sigh. "What does it matter?"

"Nothing. Not to me." England buttoned his jacket. "But you cannot flee forever."

America pulled the covers over his head. "Yes, I can.")

* * *

Next update on Christmas Eve! So far I have managed to keep to my schedule so I have high hopes, haha!


	3. III

It's Christmas Eve! Hope you've all been good boys and girls... because Finland is watching, hahaha.

Thank you to: **Nihonbara, Diurnal Days, suzako** and **AEngland**!

Evergreen

[3/3]

"Hey, look." America caught him by the shoulder. "Mistletoe."

"Yes," England sighed. "There's certainly no shortage."

America dipped a hand behind his back, pulled him close, taking his chin as he kissed him. England let him press him up against the door as he did it, feeling the ivy like old rope against his spine. He could feel America trembling beneath his hands.

Cold enough to snow.

America pulled back.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright." England took his face, pressed his forehead to his. He rubbed at his cheek.

"Aren't you gonna say you told me so?"

"Now why would I do a thing like that?"

America sighed. "I dunno. Because... you were right"

"Oh, don't sulk." England kissed him on the forehead. "I'm not that awful. Not anymore."

"Mmm." America wrapped his arms about him properly, nuzzling his cheek against his chest. "But you knew," he said. "You knew I wouldn't do it."

"Yes." England carded his fingers through corn-coloured hair. "...We do go through the same charade every year, after all."

"It's getting more and more difficult."

"Yes."

"Sometimes... w-well, I don't know about you but I find it hard to even speak. If I didn't have you to talk to, I really think I'd have forgotten by now. Language, I mean."

"I quite understand." England shivered. "Look, let's go inside. It's getting intolerable."

"Fine." America took the axe from its leather sling. "Stand back."

England did, watching him hack away at the heavy net of ivy that had grown across their front door in their absence. It hadn't felt like they'd been gone all that long but admittedly he didn't have much concept of time anymore. He still wore his old wristwatch, a Christmas present from America a long time ago, but it hadn't worked for decades.

America managed to get the door open with considerable effort, stumbling into the house still clutching the axe. England followed him, unwinding his scarf. The house was cold and dark and he could feel rustling underfoot.

"The bastards have been growing again," he grumbled. "I swear they do it when we're not looking."

"Yeah." America went to the mantelpiece and lit the line of crooked candles. He glanced about the room, his hands in his pockets. "You were right, though. I guess we really don't need a tree."

"I wasn't being a Scrooge about it," England agreed. "I just don't see why you can't decorate one of the ones in here. Look, that one's growing through the blasted wall."

"Yeah." America gave an exaggerated shrug. He seemed to have lost interest in the tree now, besides. "I just... I dunno. Wanted it to be like it was before, I guess."

"It's too late for that now."

"I know. It was stupid."

"I'm surprised you care, anyway. Christmas was very much a human tradition."

"I know – but I liked it. It was their other traditions I wasn't so fond of." America chewed at his bottom lip. "War, you know, that sort of thing."

England rolled his eyes. "You never were much good at being a nation, America," he said. "You're far too selfish. Not that it matters now."

"Guess not." America flopped down on the sofa, pausing for a moment to look at England's book. He was using a leaf for a bookmark. "Still," he sighed, "if nothing else, it's a relief to know there was still enough goodness left in the earth that it was all able to grow back. You know, eventually."

"And what about the Dust Bowl, you little hypocrite?"

"Jeez, I learnt my lesson, didn't I?" America leaned back, closing his eyes. "Even though that was the humans, too. I was the one coughing up the dust and blood."

"Watch your mouth, is all I'm saying." England crossed the room, ducking beneath twisted boughs of low-hanging holly, berries glowing like red jewels, and pearled strings of mistletoe. "I'm going to start on the soup."

"Fine." America sounded deeply disinterested, stretching out his legs. "...I guess I should cut back some of this overgrowth, huh?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

But England turned to look at him as he spoke, observing him at the heart of the evergreen jungle that had strangled their living room. His hands were still shaking and the axe was discarded by the door and England knew he wouldn't do it.

There was no coming back from it now.

 **[1941]**

"I'm not coming. I don't feel like it."

"Can't you at least show your face?"

"I said I don't feel like it." America didn't move, determinedly facing the wall. He was fully dressed, the new leather of his bomber jacket creaking as he breathed.

"That's not going to get you off the hook," England said coldly. He grimaced as he pushed off the doorframe and limped into the room. "You don't feel like celebrating? Neither do I, to be perfectly honest, but that's not the sodding point. It isn't for us, America. It's for the men – and if we've the gall to ask them to die for us then the least we can do is smile and have a glass of sherry and act like it all means something."

America said nothing, picking at his blanket. He didn't really want to argue. He hoped England would just give up on him and go away.

England, of course, did no such thing; he came to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He barely made a sound but America could hear how much pain he was in caged behind his breathing. He didn't want to look – the raw bloodied skin, the bandages, the broken arm in its sling, they were all imprinted behind his eyes. He lay very still, tensing, terrified that England would touch him, wanting him to; wishing he'd fuck him, perhaps, so he wouldn't have to think, to hate himself, but he knew England didn't have the strength. He could smell the antiseptic, strong, bitter. For a long moment the only sound between them was the muffled melody of the band playing in the canteen, the Christmas party in full swing behind their backs.

"Look," England said at last, "I know Pearl Harbour was only a few weeks ago, I know you're still in pain, but–"

"I'm not, though."

"Pardon?"

"I said I'm not. I'm not in pain. I don't care. I don't care at all, okay?" America closed his eyes. "I really couldn't give a fuck."

"Now there's really no need to be like that."

"Yes there is," America said. "What did they expect? They said they were neutral but they weren't, they were helping you guys. Did they really think Japan was just gonna sit there and take it?"

"You're making it sound like Japan was justified," England said dangerously. "And I'm sure that's not your intention."

America shrugged. "Not _justified_ ," he mumbled. "But I can see why he did it."

Another pause. England, at length, reached out and put his hand to his shoulder. America fiercely knocked it away.

"Don't. I know you think I came here for you but I didn't. I'm only here because they made me come."

England sighed. "I don't believe you."

"Well, it's the truth. You don't have to believe me but it's true, England, it is. If you want to let humans lead you blindly into war after war then that's fine but don't come crying to me."

"'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind," England murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing. Shakespeare." England sighed through his nose. "Nothing."

"Shakespeare," America said. " _Shakespeare_. Is that all you can think of to say?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what else to say to you. I've said everything I can. It doesn't seem to make much difference."

"Because I'm not goddamned blind like you!" America snapped, sitting up. "All of you, France, Germany, Spain, Russia, Japan...! You just blindly do what your people tell you. You go to war because they feel like it, you never even question it! How can you be proud of that? Look at you, England! You're a mess!"

"Germany did this to me," England said calmly.

"No, your people did! Germany's people did! Why can't you see that?!"

"I have no way, and therefore want no eyes."

America's jaw twitched. "Was that fucking Shakespeare _again_?"

"It was. King Lear, Act Four, Scene One."

"I swear to god!"

"America, I don't know what you want me to do," England said tiredly. "I am a nation, after all. I have a duty to my people. I cannot deny what I am."

"You could refuse!"

"As you do?" England got up, albeit with a little difficulty. "Tell me, for all your sulking, for all your running away... where has it got you in the end? You're here, aren't you? You know perfectly well that there is nowhere you can run."

"You say that like _I'm_ the problem."

"Hmm." England patted him roughly on the head. It was affectionate and condescending all at once. "I'm going back to the party. I'll be waiting under the mistletoe."

Sarcastic but not necessarily untrue. America lay down again, watching him go. He was definitely limping, trying his best not to let it affect his stride, stiff upper lip and all that. America found him exhausting.

England was at the threshold when the low wail of the air raid siren began, the sound ascending higher, louder, over 'Jingle Bells' as it rang throughout the barracks.

"Bollocks," England grumbled. "On Christmas Eve, too." He looked at America, who hadn't moved. "You'll have to get up now."

America sniffed. "'S'not like I can die."

"Up!" England demanded. "Now! Immortal or not, I'm not spending the rest of tonight prying you out from under a pile of rubble."

"Fine." America rolled his eyes, at last rising. He straightened his tie as he crossed the room. "Now what?"

"The bloody air-raid shelter!" England seized his wrist, pulling him out into the hallway, now filling up with servicemen and personnel. "Come on, stop dawdling!"

But America did dawdle, using the push and ebb of the crowd, the narrow walkway, to squirm free of England's hold on him and pull away, falling back. He heard England call for him, angry, impatient, but he was away like a salmon upstream, keeping close to the wall. He opened the first door he came to and darted through, escaping out into the night.

The sky was on fire. He could smell the smoke thick on the air already, hear the roar of Spitfires and B52s above the clouds. The searchlights flashed and beamed between the buildings, hunting, and the sirens screeched. A surprise attack; nobody had expected this, not on Christmas Eve. It was almost laughable. England never seemed to learn his lesson.

He started through the streets. They were empty but for the mobs of firefighters and Air Raid Wardens dashing to and fro – but none of them approached him, all the same. Perhaps they sensed, they knew, they understood.

 _Don't come near me. I haven't got it in me to be civil._

England caught his arm, wrenching him off-balance.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he seethed. "I am not in the mood for your games tonight, boy!"

"Oh, hey, look at that." America smiled at him. "You caught me."

"You know I'll always catch you," England said savagely. "You can't outrun me."

"Guess not." America threw his arm, heavy, around England's shoulder, feeling him buckle. "You're just in time for the show, anyway."

"Show?" England repeated in disgust. "You say that like–"

"Like this is what you want?" America tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

"Of course it isn't!"

"Then why do you let them do it?"

"I don't!" England pulled free. "For god's sake, why can't you understand?"

"What is there to understand?" America spoke just as an explosion tore through an adjacent street, rattling the ground, shattering the windows, the glass cascading to the cobbles below with a sound like bells.

England winced, bowing his head. "You did this on purpose," he said in a low voice. "So I'd follow you, you little bastard."

"No, I was running away. Like I always do, remember?"

"Don't lie to me!" England seized his face. "You brought me out here on purpose. Do you really think I want to see this?!"

America reached up and pried his hands from his cheeks, instead clasping them hard between his own so that he couldn't pull away. England looked at him like he didn't know him.

"Then, England," America said, looking at the orange sky, "what do you want to see?"

* * *

"...We're supposed to give each other gifts, aren't we?"

"That was the tradition." England sighed. "It's alright, I'll let you off the hook."

"Is that your way of saying you don't have a gift for me, either?"

"I confess, I wasn't sure if you'd even remember."

"Is that why you were hiding that Dickens book from me?"

"I-I wasn't hiding it."

America laughed, settling. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm not sure I even remember how to read."

England exhaled. He tightened his hand about America's, squeezing his cool palm. They were lying side by side on the bed, looking up at the sky through the hole in the roof of their bedroom ceiling. It had happened some months ago, torn open by the weight of the vines and flowers growing over it, rooting themselves between the slate. There was never any rain so they hadn't bothered to fix it, watching night by night as the roots and leaves encroached on its ragged edges, their window to the silent world beyond.

The night was a clear one and they could see the low haze of brilliant crystal colours overhead, the man-made aurora borealis to which they owed their freedom – as America liked to call it.

England often looked up at it and wondered if they knew, if they could still feel, if they were screaming.

"Do you ever think about the others?" America asked suddenly. His eyes were closed quite contentedly. He never gave it a second thought.

"You mean France and Russia and..."

"Yeah. Well, all of 'em. I wonder what they're doing. You reckon they all live together? Maybe they made a little village or something, haha. That'd be cute."

"What does it matter? They banished us."

"Me," America corrected. "They banished me. You just came with me because... I dunno, you're a masochist."

"Mm. Something like that." England yawned. "It was so long ago, anyway."

"Yeah. Maybe they've all died."

"I doubt it. I daresay they're doing better than us."

"Whatever." America shrugged. "Who needs them? Who needs books or language or Christmas presents? I like our life just how it is. It's nice and simple and we don't have to do anything we don't want to, right? No more humans to make us go to war." He waved towards the hole in the ceiling. "They're all... floating around up there somewhere, outta our hair." He snapped his fingers. "Hey, Christmas lights!"

"Oh, surely even you're not that callous," England said coolly.

"Hey, they started it," America replied cheerily. "I just wanted to have a nice quiet life with you in Boston. They're the one who wanted independence. They're the ones who built the bomb. When you look at it like that, I don't think I overreacted. Not really."

"They certainly underestimated what you were capable of," England agreed absently. "...As we all did."

"Well, yeah, we both know that's why they banished me afterwards." America didn't sound too bothered. "It wasn't a punishment. It was because they were scared."

"Do you blame them?"

"No." America opened his blue eyes, beaming at England. "It's fine, though. I have you. That's all that matters. I don't care about presents or a tree or that red guy with the stockings. As long as you stay with me, I don't need anything else."

"I'm not going anywhere, America," England said gently. "You're the only thing I've got left."

* * *

 _"What have you done?"_

 _"Wait and see, wait and see!" America kept his hands firmly clamped over England's eyes as he led him outside. "You'll spoil the surprise!"_

 _"Forgive me my scepticism, America, but–"_

 _"God, shut up a minute, will ya?"_

 _"America, please." He didn't know if it was that America couldn't hear the tremble in his voice or if he didn't care._

 _"Hang on, hang on...!" America brought him to an abrupt halt. "There!"_

 _He took away his hands with a flourish and England looked up. The sky was awash with a mist of beautiful colours, impermeable, heavy, like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life._

 _"What have you done?" he asked again. "...America, god..."_

 _"It was painless, don't worry."_

 _"That's not what I..."_

 _"I thought it was fitting for the season, you know? Peace on Earth an' all that. There's no way they could ever have done it on their own, not with all that money and language and borders, they never had any real interest. War's pretty profitable, after all. So I figured... if you remove all that, well–"_

 _"You mean if you remove their humanity?!"_

 _"Well, yeah, I guess." America shrugged. "Turns out they're made of stardust or something, haha. Pretty, huh?"_

 _"Or you turned them to stardust," England said in despair. He looked at America, who was smiling, very pleased with himself. "Do you realise what you've done? America, tell me – do you actually have any fucking inkling–?"_

 _"Sure I do. I'm not stupid, you know." America pressed his hands together. Truly, terrifyingly, he was exactly as a child on Christmas morning, his forget-me-not eyes shining. "I've brought about world peace – all without shedding a single drop of blood. What's so bad about that?"_

 _England opened his mouth but he couldn't utter a sound. He had no idea what to say. He simply looked at America and realised, perhaps for the first time, that there was no escape._

 _"See, you've got no answer. Speechless with joy, I assume." America leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, darlin'. I told you you'd love your present."_

* * *

I don't know what's happened to me, haha. I can't write nice things anymore. XD I think this is at least the fifth fic of mine that has suddenly veered in a disturbing _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ direction...

Merry Christmas to all of you that celebrate! If you don't, simply have a lovely and peaceful December 25th!

Thank you for reading!

xXx


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